Echo
by wenchly
Summary: Modern-day story based off the story of Echo and Narcissus.


A/N: Any feedback, comments, and/or constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Loosely based off the myth of Echo and Narcissus.  
  
She watches him from her position on the floor in the hallway. His locker is open, and as she gazes admiringly at him he gazes admiringly at himself in the plastic-lined mirror. He is beautiful, she thinks, so very beautiful... He knows full well how beautiful he is, though he takes no notice of the girl seated on the ground. Running his hand through his tousled blond hair one last time, he adjusts his jacket and struts off to math class. She has spent the past year watching him, going to almost absurd lengths just to be near him. She has done everything from getting a locker across from his to rearranging her course schedule to be with him as much as possible. Stubborn and single-minded, she has never stopped to question the reasons behind her obsession. She does not know why, only that she must be around him. She remains there, clutching her knees to her chest, sighing wistfully as he disappears around the corner. In all this time, she has never breathed a word to him. A look of determination crosses her face. She will speak to him. She will have him, she promises herself.  
  
The girl has remained in the same spot for more than an hour now. She is starting to get sore, but takes no notice, waiting for him to turn the corner once again. He does, and resumes his ritual of self-worship. This time he brings out the gel, saturating his hair with it before once again just standing there, entranced by his own reflection. She is ready. Her dark eyes look out at him from her thin, pale face as she somewhat awkwardly makes her way toward him. He takes no notice of her, still engrossed in his image, but she does not expect him to. She tries to speak, but, to her horror, no sound comes out. She stands behind him, mouth opening and closing, and feels like a fish. She inwardly curses her pathetic behaviour, frustrated that she is not perfect for him.  
  
He finally notices a blemish in the perfection of the mirror's reflection. He turns, irritated by this being who dares disturb his time with himself. "Can I help you?" he inquires, somewhat shortly.  
  
She opens her mouth to reply, and is delighted to find that she can. Less delightful, however, is the realization that the words out of her mouth are not those she wants to be saying. "Can I help you?" she repeats, trying to figure out what is happening to her. It isn't quite the admission of love that she was going for.  
  
His perfect brow furrows. "Are you making fun of me?" he asks suspiciously.  
  
"Are you making fun of me?" She clamps a hand over her mouth as if trying to stuff the words back in. I'm so sorry! she thinks desperately at him.  
  
"Get away from me," he instructs her, perturbed by this interruption of his schedule.  
  
She doesn't reply, her hand still covering her mouth. I love you, she thinks as intensely as she can in his direction, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. Please don't hate me.  
  
"I don't think you get it," he appears more and more annoyed. "I don't want you here." From his tone, he seems to expect that the world revolve around him. Any discrepancies in this theory are simply to be ignored.  
  
"Want you here..." she echoes imploringly, taking her hand away. She aches for him, if only to bask in his perfect glow.  
  
He stares at her in bafflement for several moments as she helplessly, hopelessly gawks up at him. The sharp ringing of the school bell breaks their locked gaze. "Freak," he spits as he pushes past her to get to his next class. His bad mood will not last long, as he will spend all of chemistry admiring himself in the reflective surface of a beaker full of hydrochloric acid.  
  
"Freak," she repeats, whispering to herself his parting shot. She sinks to the floor once again. Whenever she tries to speak, the word echoes over and over, both aloud and in her mind. She does not draw attention to herself again, attempting to be even more invisible than usual. She watches him from the farthest corner of every classroom, peers at him surreptitiously around the edge her locker door. She doesn't bother eating--there does not seem to be any point in it. She notices (though nobody else does) that she is starting to fade out of reality, but doesn't particularly care. She is still unable to explain her obsession with him, so it is perhaps lucky that there is nobody who would care enough to ask her. She only knows that he is still her world, now more than ever.  
  
One day, the boy stops coming to school. She searches frantically for him, obsessively seeking her love. When she cannot find him, she waits. Still he does not come. She overhears some of his acquaintances talking. They mention a car accident. He had been fixing his hair in the rear view mirror and didn't notice the bus headed toward him. The funeral, they say, was lovely. She sinks to the floor. He has been the main focus of her life for so long that she has no idea what to do. Without him, her life seems meaningless. She aimlessly wanders the hallways (which are forever empty in her mind) until, one day, she disappears altogether.  
  
Perhaps she is wandering still...the lost echo of a wistful girl forever seeking the narcissistic object of her wasted affections. 


End file.
